


December Calendar 2015

by NovaNara



Series: December calendars [2]
Category: Basil of Baker Street - All Media Types, Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alexander Fleming (mention), Baby bunny, Bai Hu, Baker's dozen, Blue Moon, Christmas Tree, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kidlock, M/M, Original Watson child, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Puppies, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Shooting Stars, Surprise Party, also known as Byakko if you're into anime/manga, black museum, but to be honest i'll probably forget to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-04 09:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 17,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5328935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Hades Lord of the Dead's challenge of Awesomeness. 31 drabbles for 31 prompts. Anything might happen. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A.N. So so so excited for this challenge to start! First prompt from my dear silvermouse – Museum. FYI, the Black Museum and the Lambeth Poisoner are true.

It was a short while after his prodigious return to life that inspector Hopkins invited Holmes to Scotland Yard. Naturally, the sleuth promptly agreed, thinking his young admirer might have a case for him – and just as naturally, Watson followed him.

It was with no little surprise that they were instead led to the Black Museum – the museum of criminal relics of Scotland Yard, that many an important figure had deigned to visit, as the visitors’ register attested, despite its peculiar subject.

Holmes, though, scoffed at the idea of signing the register. “There is no need to let traces of my presence, Hopkins – do you really want to be known that you bring people around to brag when there’s no need to allow access? It is still not a place for anyone,” 

“Well, you’re not anyone – this is a place intended for investigators’ instruction, so I suppose you have every right to be here,” the young man said cheekily.

Holmes glared. “I’m sure policemen need all the instruction they can get,” he replied. “Is there a point to our being here?” 

“Oh please Mr. Holmes. I’m sure you’ll like it,” Hopkins insisted. 

“It might be amusing,” Watson agreed – and the detective caved in. 

The young inspector had been right in his hope that his idol would be interested in the exhibit, if unimpressed. But from someone who might have opened a whole new wing if he’d donated the memorabilia of past cases that haunted 221B Baker Street it was perhaps to be expected. Holmes, though, was informed about almost all the cases on display and was caught smiling at some of the things exhibited and somehow asking about a detail. Watson, instead, was much more vocally appreciative, while his questions were less work-oriented, and Hopkins smiled. The doctor’s presence was always a pleasure. 

“I wouldn’t think that you’d want to commemorate your failures,” Holmes pointed out in the room dedicated to Jack the Ripper. 

“It might very well be the most famous case of the century -  it’s practically the reason we get noble visitors at all, everyone is so curious about it,” the young inspector admitted, with a shrug. The killings had stopped at least, though no one had ever figured out why. Hopkins would be ready to suspect his guests’ involvement, but asking outright would bring him nothing – Watson would disclose when he was at liberty to do so, if they were really involved. 

Fine, maybe he wasn’t entirely honest in his words – maybe the Ripper would be the second most famous case of the century. But to exhibit the evidence of having rounded up the criminal mastermind Moriarty’s British gang while letting the chief and the most dangerous members escape would have been more shameful than showing a proper unsolved mystery. Hence why nothing from that case made it into the museum. 

“And this is to show we’ve not been entirely idle and helpless in your absence, Sir. The evidence from the Lambeth Poisoner, Thomas Neill Cream. Our cousins the Americans had jailed him, but then they let him go – and he moved here to continue his murderous career. Until we stopped him in 1892,” Hopkins announced proudly. 

“I remember that case,” Watson said, smiling fondly. 

“Oh yes, doctor – you helped tremendously. Were you properly thanked?” the young inspector replied, with the same puppyish admiration in his eyes he used to reserve to Holmes alone. 

“Oh, no need to,” the doctor answered, embarrassed by the question.

“You continued to work cases after we…parted?” Holmes asked, surprised, hesitating a bit on the less grating wording for what  had happened at the Falls and ultimately settling on that. “I thought you’d be much too busy with your flourishing practice.”

“Oh, just a few post-mortems here and there, amiable chats with a few Yarders…” his friend remarked, understating his contribute as always. He wouldn’t say how much it had meant for his sanity at the time to still be somehow involved in detective work, or how guilty he’d felt once Mary had fallen ill, doubting he might have missed the earliest symptoms because his mind was on murderers or killing methods…

“The inspector who solved that case told me your help was capital, doctor,” Hopkins praised warmly. 

“The poisoner was a doctor – I suppose that’s why my input was useful at all,” Watson said, shrugging. 

“Nonsense,” Holmes interjected. “Do not put yourself down, my dear. I can attest myself what a great help you are to solving cases myself. It is no wonder that the inspector would find you a just as useful conductor of light.” 

Watson blushed lightly at the praise. 

“Thank you for organising this visit, Hopkins. It was not what I expected, but it was pleasurable – and indeed, in some respects instructive,” the sleuth added. 

The young man beamed. “I did hope that you’d like it, Mr. Holmes.”           


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Prompt from mrspencil - Lestrade looks forward to a rare day off, events conspire against him. I think I did the exact opposite of what the prompt intended, but I hope you’ll forgive me for that. I couldn’t get this out of my head. Sorry!

__

Lestrade loved his job. He really did. Making the city safer for everyone – it made him a good man. A man who could be proud of himself. That didn’t mean that the job wasn’t tiring, or sometimes frustrating, or even – when he was swamped in paperwork – boring. It certainly didn’t mean that the inspector didn’t look forward to his – too rare, if you asked him, but the police couldn’t be left in the hands of the likes of Gregson – day off. 

He could almost taste it. An armchair in front of the fire, a cigar, a newspaper, and maybe a drink. And his wife, of course – but she usually knew he longed for peace and would sit quietly by him, with her own book or an embroidery or something. When the kids had been younger, peace had been rare – but now they were in college, so his dream seemed like a likely prospect. 

But he’d barely woke up, in his free day, when a dear friend of his wife since their college days had come to their door, crying pitifully. Which meant that before he’d even completed his breakfast he’d been roped into going to her husband to ‘threaten’ him and make clear that beating his wife wouldn’t be tolerated anymore, which he did quite willingly because he hated bullies. 

That led to a bit of a skirmish, but nothing Lestrade couldn’t deal with. Though, it certainly wasn’t a restful start of the day. When he went back home, he found out that the whole place still echoed with the harsh sobs of the poor, abused, terrified woman. He tried to awkwardly comfort her, before leaving the matter to his wife. 

It might be cowardly, but today he just wanted a bit of rest – to relax, without thinking about the darker side of life he faced daily. Since that was clearly impossible at home, he went to his club – or, tried to. Apparently there’d been an accident, something had burned down and now the place was closed for renovations. 

He considered going to his friends, but one was visiting relatives in Scotland, another’s wife was ill… he simply couldn’t remember one who could offer him the quiet he needed. It didn’t help that most of his friends were colleagues too, which day off didn’t coincide with his. 

Desperate, he opted to search for peace in the most unlikely place to find it. At 221B Baker Street. When he was allowed in, Holmes was slumped on the sofa in his dressing gown, but he still raised his head and asked somewhat eagerly, if a bit slurring, “Case?”

“Not exactly,” Lestrade murmured, blushing a bit. Maybe he was imposing. Maybe this had really been a bad idea. 

“And anyway, you wouldn’t be in any state to go if he asked, Holmes. You did take your morphine not long ago,” Watson interjected, clearly disapproving. 

At that, the sleuth shut up and sulked, giving the cold shoulder to the whole world. 

“Why are you here, then?” the doctor asked Lestrade amiable and curious. 

When the inspector confessed his plight, Watson chuckled a bit, but otherwise proved a very accommodating acquaintance. In a short while Lestrade was settled exactly how he’d longed – armchair, newspaper, cigar and brandy. Holmes kept quietly sulking on the sofa (or maybe he was sleeping off the morphine, who knew – at least he didn’t snore), while Watson scribbled something at his desk, without a word and with only a rare smile to himself. Lestrade sighed. Perfect. 


	3. Chapter 3

__

“You’ll have to tell the bees, Watson,” Holmes wheezed, each painful breath laboured. 

“Tell them what?” his friend asked, very glad that, after decades and his retirement in this secluded place from both London and profession, the former detective would still not tolerate any other doctor but him at his bedside, and would call for his assistance whenever he was ill. 

“When I’m gone,” the former sleuth said softly. 

“Nonsense. You’re not going to die, my dear. I won’t let you,” the doctor replied firmly, readying the syringe for an injection.

“Watson, I’m old,” Holmes pointed out, always the voice of reason. Seventy-four, at that.”

“And this is pneumonia, and you should have sent for me at least four days ago, because it was bloody obvious yours was no simple cold. And I’m not even going on about how silly it was going strolling in late November without a brolly in our climate. Of course you’d get caught by the rain and fall ill. Your housekeeper betrayed your secrets, I’m afraid,” Watson concluded for him, shaking his head but smiling fondly. “Still, you’re not going to die because of your lack of foresight.” 

“Watson…” the beekeeper groaned. He knew perfectly well the chances of his survival – very, very slim, if at all present. Pneumonia on an old, weakened body, which he’d overexerted for decades…he was no fool. It would do no good to his friend – his _doctor_ friend, who should really know better – to deny the obvious. It would just hurt him more when the inevitable happened. And whatever the former detective had wished in his long life, he’d never wished to hurt his Watson. 

“Spare your breath, Holmes,” his biographer interjected, with a look of concern. “No need to exert yourself. Just let me tell you a story.”

The beekeeper nodded and smiled, closing his eyes in exhaustion. Who was he to reject one of Watson’s fantastic, florid tales? He might have criticized them in the past, but he loved them  all the same. 

“I’m not sure if you know this is how I lost Mary, too. Pneumonia. I’ve always wondered if I had somehow infected her, brought the germ home…”his friend’s voice waned, choked with raw emotion. 

Oh. That explained why he was so adamant about not losing his friend the same way. Obeying doctor’s orders to spare his voice, Holmes kept silent, but he squeezed his friend’s hand in a probably vain attempt at comfort instead. 

“But,” the doctor added after a moment, dominating himself, “she’s going to save you, if in a rather roundabout way.” 

The patient raised a questioning eyebrow. How could a dead woman do anything? 

“It all comes down to me being unable to stop being a doctor,” Watson chuckled. “Which is why I found so odd when you secluded yourself here. But, nevermind that. I’m just saying that I’ve always done some volunteer work as a doctor. Of course, more so when we stopped working cases, and even more after I supposedly retired, too. And I often went to St. Mary’s hospital because…well, because I liked the name. How awfully sentimental of me, uh?” He half-expected to see a sneer on his friend’s face, but nothing of the sort could be read on his features. He seemed to be resting, lulled by the tale.

“Anyways, I naturally made…well, maybe not exactly friends, but a lot of acquaintances there. And one day – someone reminded me so very much of you, my dear,” Watson related, a soft, affectionate smile on his lips. 

Holmes’ sudden sharp look clearly asked if he was being replaced, so the doctor hurried to explain, “Doctor Fleming – Alexander Fleming, if you want to be precise – had grown bacteria’s cultures, as he was studying them. And then, just like you, something that should really not have happened happened. His cultures got contaminated by mould. He was luckier than you, though. Instead of an unexpected smelly explosion. He discovered that the mould had killed all his bacteria. When he told me – he really, really reminded me of the very first time I saw you. Do you remember? You were all excited about your blood test.” 

Watson smiled fondly again, lost in the memory, and Holmes nodded as vigorously as he could. How could he ever forget one of the best days of his life? He decided to brave doctor’s orders and speak again, to show he understood the significance of such a discovery. “That could save millions of lives,” he rasped out.

“Well, it certainly should,” Watson agreed cheerily. “Which is why, when I knew you’d fallen ill, I begged Fleming for his – penicillin, I think he named it. After all, cultures are a thing, but we’ll have to see how the human body reacts to it.” 

“Are you _experimenting_ on me, Watson?” Holmes asked, with a wheezing chuckle. 

“What goes around comes around, does it not?” the doctor replied, grinning. “But I really believe in this, Holmes.” He was right to – the former detective slowly recuperated his health. And if Watson could only catnap until then, out of the necessity to administer the injections every four hours, he didn’t even register it as discomfort. 

And yes, maybe the former sleuth downplayed a bit his getting well, because – as much as he loved his bees – he had missed his friend much more, and hadn’t wanted to see him depart once he was deemed healthy once again. 

Until Watson sighed and called him out on that. “You know, Holmes, if you need me to stay longer – you need only ask. You’re not the only one who gets lonely. I think this corner of Sussex would benefit from having a doctor who keeps on top of the latest medical discoveries.” Needless to say, the good doctor moved in with his friend shortly after – and doctor Fleming received a yearly supply of delicious honey for a couple of decades.   


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Prompt from our goddess, Hades Lord of the Dead - Following Watson's death, Holmes discovers a secret he had been harbouring... whether it is dark or otherwise is up to you. I’ll let you decide if it is a dark secret or not. By the way, you do not know how hard it was for me not to turn this into mushy Johnlock – I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. (Slash still slipped in, though.) Holmes’ point of view, and then Watson’s.

 

I admit I didn’t expect it. When, after Watson’s death, his lawyer sent me – according to my late friend’s instructions – a huge number of loose papers, envelopes, notebooks and jotters, I anticipated no new discoveries.  A long, bittersweet trip down memory lane, certainly . But I’d arrogantly believed my intimate friend couldn’t dissemble or keep secrets from me – surely not for all the decades of our acquaintance. So the sheet of paper enclosed in a folder with many others letters and telegrams left me quite shocked.

“My dear, dear Holmes,” it read, “I know you were surprised – pleasantly surprised, obviously, but stunned nonetheless – by my easy, eager forgiveness over your return from death. And you might have deemed my sudden forgetting Moriarty’s identity years after the case I called ‘The valley of fear’ – which has puzzled not few of my readers – to be a slip of my too-cluttered brain to retain such details, even apparently important. These things have the same explanation – one I thought you could blame me for, but now I could as well reveal it. I’ll tell you this – I believed you dead twice, and always for a short time.”

Twice? Now that didn’t make sense. I’d faked being dying, but not actually dead. No more than once. God knew that had been painful enough – for me no less than for my friend – not to want to repeat it. Ever.

“But to clear up all this, we have to start from the beginning,” I continued to read eagerly. Now that looked like a good idea. “And the beginning was Afghanistan. Long story short, I met Colonel Sebastian Moran there – and despite belonging to different regiments, circumstances made so that we saved each other’s lives. We’ve been friends since. He gave me tips on sharpshooting. I warned him on how to have safe sex (not something I’d normally admit, but there’s no need to be shy when all the protagonists are already dead, is there?).

After our return to Britain…well, this folder contains our whole correspondence, so you’ll see for yourself. But it can be summed as variations of this. On my part, ‘You could do better – and be a better man. I know you were a better man, Colonel.’ On his, ‘I only know how to shoot, Doctor. Rather, why don’t you join us? You’d be rich. We wouldn’t even ask you to torture anyone (though I know you have the knowledge necessary to be brilliant at it). You could just patch up our men after the odd work that gets them more or less scratched.’

Well, that and a lot of ranting and raving about the late and unlamented Professor Moriarty, who had utterly entranced my friend. Not ‘work-related’ things, of course – I couldn’t have stopped Moriarty’s schemes by way of knowing them in advance. Just the character of the man, his idiosyncrasies, his brilliance (which you were forced to recognise too, if I’m not wrong). 

Trusting each other as we were, Moran never told me openly that his relationship with Moriarty was getting deeper, or straight out that they were breaking the Labouchère amendment together – such a small, inconsequential addition to both’s criminal careers – but some wordings in his letters…you’ll read them too, if you wish, but they made me assume.

Anyway, that’s why I ‘forgot’ Moriarty in 1891. I didn’t want to accidentally let slip that I knew him much better than I had any right to, thanks to Moran’s messages – from the way the Professor was fussy over his coffee to his bee allergy. I was afraid that you’d suspect me of being less than honourable – of betraying you – and that terrified me. I couldn’t bear such a thought.

What I _really_ didn’t foresee were the messages I received from Moran after Reichenbach. Instead of complaining about our mutual genius-less state, he complained about you being ‘slippery like a damn eel’. At first I deemed it a joke in really bad taste, but it wasn’t the Colonel’s style…and it lasted too long to be a simple joke. I’ll freely admit that he was not the man I believed – or wanted – would warn me about your continued survival.

I wanted to join you then, but if you had wanted me by your side, you’d send word, and I confess that I was wounded when you didn’t. From his messages, I could continue tracking the both of you through the world. It was actually Moran the one who figured out that your stubborn silence was meant for my – and Mary’s – protection.

When the Colonel came back to London – I believed he’d finally accomplished his revenge. He wasn’t a man to give up on any task he’d set for himself, according to how I knew him. It broke my heart all over again (and Moran not wanting to talk about it, ashamed of admitting his failure, didn’t help me see the truth). I considered seriously avenging you in turn, no matter our friendly past.

But before I could figure out how to do so without risking our private war to cause possibly terrible collateral damages (Moran wasn’t certainly easy to kill) you came back to me. And as always, you’d already taken care of the planning.

I might have hoped to change him, once, but I knew nothing short of capture or death would stop him – like, to be honest, nothing but death would have stopped me if I’d known that the Professor had been the only one to walk away from the Falls alive. I knew where my allegiances stood and behaved consequently.

And if I sometimes regretted not being able to save Moran from himself, and the Professor’s noxious influence…well, nobody needed to know. But you know everything about me, and I wanted you to know – _I know how to keep secrets_.”

It appeared he certainly did. Had that old jab smarted so much? No matter. I was in for an interesting read.                         


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Prompt from Garonne – Umbrella. I know this is probably entirely wrong for the time period, but well…I couldn’t help myself.

Mycroft wasn’t supposed to look after his little brother. Why, at twelve years old, most people would believe he needed looking after himself (which was patently ridiculous – he was much too smart to get in trouble). Anyway, five years old Sherlock had his nanny to take care of him. But he was all too capable to give her the slip anytime something attracted his attention. And most things that attracted his attention were unsuitable for a young child, especially one as excitable and daring as his little brother.

So Mycroft, seriously concerned that he might become an only child at any time – which would have been so boring – had taken over himself to be Sherlock’s unofficial guardian (not that his little brother would thank him for it). 

Now he was waiting for one of his brother’s hare-brained schemes to be implemented at any time. In a street near the borders of their neighbourhood someone had left a cardboard box with six yapping puppies in it. It was kind, Mycroft supposed, to give them the chance to find a home rather than simply drown them. 

The elder Holmes brother had, obviously, noticed his sibling’s looks of longing when they went past that street, but as Sherlock hadn’t mentioned a word about it to their parents Mycroft suspected he might rather attempt to smuggle one in and present everyone with a fait accompli. If nothing had happened still it was only because his little brother was yet to formulate a foolproof plan.

So when – one cold December day, heavy rain pelting the earth – Mycroft saw young Sherlock slip away otherwise unnoticed, without even a coat on – but thankfully grabbing an umbrella at least – he followed the silly little boy. The elder and wiser sibling managed to put on his coat and gloves beyond taking an umbrella of his own, somehow without losing his little brother’s tracks despite being slower. 

And thank God he did, because Sherlock went to see the puppies…and left his umbrella over their already soggy cardboard box as protection. After petting one for a bit, they young child decided to get back home, apparently unconcerned by the fact that he’d get wet to the bone. Was the silly little child trying to get pneumonia? 

In a moment Mycroft was at his side, rather than on his trail, and Sherlock huddled gratefully under his brother’s umbrella, still looking entirely too satisfied of himself despite his brother’s soft-worded scolding, that the little one knew would last all the way home if not longer. Mycroft sighed internally. Maybe he should be the one breaking the idea of adopting a puppy to his parents. They might be more likely to see his point than react positively at Sherlock’s next undoubtedly rash plan. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from W. Y. Traveller – Frost. You know you are entirely too invested in this when you research late 1800 temperatures. Also, apparently British say “It is X degrees of frost” meaning the temperature is X degrees below zero. And this has nothing to do with actual frost, but well… (Also, probably OOC sorry – I think I inadvertently channelled RDJ!Verse here).

 

It’s the middle of December 1890. Winter has come early, this year, cold and bitter, and by now London looks like Finland – snowy and with barely any sun showing in the day. They aren’t going to have a six months long night too, are  they? 

Of course, the blasted weather affects Watson – but he has a warm home and a warm-hearted wife that make his aches bearable. He’s worried about Holmes, though. When not working (and Watson hasn’t read in the papers of any crime that might require – and be worth of – his friend’s intervention) the consulting detective’s moods are always fickle, and such a weather can easily help plunge him into a black mood. 

So after work – and with Mary’s encouragement – he visits Baker Street. As expected, he finds a despondent Holmes slumped on the settee, in his dressing gown, apparently lost in contemplation of the dying embers of the fireplace. 

“Oh please tell me one of your patients has been poisoned!” the sleuth begs by way of welcome. 

The doctor chuckles. “I’m afraid not, my dear. But you shouldn’t have left the fire die out,” he chides gently, moving to revive it. “We had six degrees of frost yesterday – and that was the highest temperature of the day.”

“Have you really come to talk about the _weather_ , Watson?” the detective groans, clearly disappointed with that – and with the world in general. 

“No. I’ve come to make sure you join me and Mary at Christmas – unless, of course, you’re spending it with your brother,” Watson replies, smiling. Give his friend something to – hopefully – look forward to does much to put him in better spirits after all. 

“Thank God I won’t have to – we share a common distaste for forced, hypocritical interactions. If we need each other we know where to go, but there’s no reason to meet just because the year is closing,” Holmes huffs. 

“Well then I’ll expect you,” his friend declares, smiling. 

“Why?” the sleuth queries, looking honestly baffled at the reason why anyone could want his company without a crime in process. 

“Because neither Mary nor I have any living family anymore, and we might not have blood ties, but you are like family to me. I want you to celebrate with us, Holmes. It’s _Christmas_ ,” the doctor replies, as if that explains it all. 

The detective blushes slightly at his friend’s heartfelt affectionate words. 

“Besides, I want to make sure you’re properly fed for once!” Watson jokes, smiling widely. 

“Mother hen,” Holmes grumbles softly – but he’s smiling, too. 

“I missed you too,” the doctor quips. 

“I didn’t say –” the sleuth protests automatically. 

“I did,” Watson retorts, letting him pretend if he wants that the feeling is entirely on his side. “Will you come?”

“I suppose,” the detective agrees, as if to a chore. 

“Will you take care of yourself until then? I don’t want you to freeze or fall ill in the next ten days,” the doctor asks softly. 

“If you don’t trust me to, you could always…” Holmes never ends that sentence, suddenly realising it’s not teasing as he meant it. More needy, and he doesn’t want to look like that. 

“Of course, I’ll come by as often as I can. To check up, obviously,” Watson says, apparently hearing what the sleuth hadn’t had the heart to voice (ask for?). 

The sleuth wants to be offended by his friend stating he needs to be checked upon, but he’s honestly too busy being happy that he’ll have much more of his company instead. They haven’t seen each other since the start of October, when they solved what Watson will later call the Red-headed League. He’s been really awfully lonely, though he’d die before admitting it. Still, “If you need to get back home, now that you’ve obtained the assurance you’ve come for…” he says, wishing for the opposite. 

“I have no pressing need to leave for another hour. Do you feel like recounting some old case I missed out on?” his friend states, ensconcing himself in _his_ armchair.

Holmes smiles, nods, and sits up straighter.    


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from Wordwielder - Mary's up to something- what?

It was mere chance that Holmes would be looking out the window when Watson arrived, one December morning of 1889, and so he saw his friend hesitate on the pavement. That was odd. Why would he? He couldn’t possibly doubt that he’d be more than welcome.

After a few moments, the doctor resolved to come in. So, very naturally, the detective’s first words upon seeing him were, “What’s wrong, my dear Watson?” 

“I won’t ask how you’ve deduced that – and deeply wish that you could determine the answer to your own question too without forcing me to spell it out. It’s embarrassing, Holmes,” his friend admitted with a grimace. 

“Embarrassing? You know that I would never judge you harshly, Watson. Not meaning it, at least,” the sleuth replied gently. He had teased his friend about his writings in the past, but that was a different matter. It’d always been done in good humour. 

“I’m not the one at fault,” his friend remarked quietly. “Truth be told, I’m not here as a friend, Holmes, but as a client.” 

“Then I’ll have to insist to hear your case, doctor. You know how it works,” the sleuth demanded, softening his request with a smile. 

“I know the case is beneath you, and that you wouldn’t normally take it, but…” Watson hesitated, before sighing deeply and ploughing on, “I think Mary has a lover, and it’s eating at me. Would you ease my mind? Solve my doubts? Please, Holmes – for me?”

“What evidence do you have?” Holmes asked, utterly professional – and that, somehow, calming to his friend’s troubled spirit. 

“She said she was going to visit Mrs. Forrester quite often, lately, but I didn’t think any of it at first. I mean, I know that they are friends, almost family – I understand that. But I was called to a home consult by a neighbour of Mrs. Forrester – I think she suggested me, at that – and that’s how I discovered that someone in their street is making renovations. The whole street is permeated by a characteristic type of clay because of that. I trailed it home on my shoes. Mary never did,” the doctor explained softly.

“My dear, I’m afraid our flatshare was detrimental to your domestic happiness. My example might have made you more suspicious than you have reason to be. I still believe there might be an innocent reason for your wife’s behaviour,” the detective replied.

“But,” his upset friend objected. 

“Oh, she’s lying to you, undoubtedly,” Holmes acknowledged, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean a lover. Why am I so sure? Because from the first time I met her, I was impressed by her intelligence. And only a very stupid woman would seek another’s companionship after earning your devotion.”

“Holmes, I don’t need to be _flattered_ ,” Watson stated, blushing a bit. 

“No, you need to cease doubting,” the sleuth agreed matter-of-factly. “So be it, my dear, I accept your case.” 

Which brought the consulting detective to tail Mrs. Watson – and, be it the woman’s uncommon acumen or his own less than usually careful attitude, to be noticed by her in the act. Naturally, Mary asked for an explanation to such an unusual behaviour. 

The sleuth opted for an honest suggestion. “You shouldn’t have lied to your husband.” 

Mary sighed deeply. “So he noticed, did he?” she queried softly. She seemed more flattered than angered by her husband resorting to Holmes’ help. “Fine, Mr. Holmes, come with me – I suppose I do have a confession and an apology to make. To you.”

That made little sense, but then again, women’s words rarely did. The sleuth didn’t know what to expect after such a declaration. He could only raise a surprised eyebrow when Mary led him to one of his own boltholes, which he hadn’t used in months. 

Mrs. Watson had a key to it – a key he certainly hadn’t given her – and, entering before him, she said simply, “I asked Wiggins once he’d come to summon John, and he procured me access to this place. I know I should have asked you beforehand, but it was a spur of a moment idea, and you were on a case, and shortly after that you took another one, and I didn’t quite know how to ask without looking ridiculous…and you weren’t actually using this place, and I hoped you wouldn’t mind,” she quite rambled, taking a seat on an unstable chair and taking the crochet work laying over it, an almost ready blue jumper. 

“You are right, of course, I do not mind, but…couldn’t you do that in your own home?” Holmes queried, honestly baffled. Why would Mary need one of his boltholes to crochet in?

“It’s my Christmas gift for John. And he’s curious and eager like a child about it. He discovered my gift for him last year. Oh, he acted surprised when he received it, all right, but I noticed,” Mrs. Watson explained simply, with a look pleading him to understand. 

“I see,” the sleuth replied – and he did. What she said was true. Holmes had taken to keeping gifts for his flatmate in one of his boltholes too, after the first time. Of course, he bought them, he didn’t make them, so the doctor had never got suspicious over it. 

Then he gave her a key. “There’s another bolthole, much better kept. I don’t know what Wiggins was thinking, leading you here,” he said, adding the place’s address. In all probability the young child was unsure Holmes would agree to it, but he liked Mary and the doctor, so he had purposefully chosen one almost never used. The sleuth would need to have words with his young lieutenant about the level of comfort a lady needed even in her boltholes – after he reassured Watson, of course.     


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead - Watson meets another famous author (or poet or playwright if you'd prefer). Sorry if it’s short, it was hard to write for me. But I discovered Stoker really met Conan Doyle. So, obviously…

It was Doyle’s doing, of course. He’d insisted so much with Watson for him to come to that party, as an advertising move, that the good doctor hadn’t really been able to deny him.  He wished Holmes could have come, too – but his friend had sternly refused – not that Watson didn’t understand his reasoning.

However, the doctor missed the way the sleuth would have undoubtedly deduce all the people present – to his great delight – had he been here. Instead, the biographer had just come and he already wanted to get back home, but he was mercilessly trapped by Doyle who paraded him around like a trophy wife. (His mind really created the oddest metaphors sometimes.) 

“And this, doctor Watson, is a good friend of mine, Mr. Stoker – Bram Stoker,” Doyle said, introducing him for the millionth time in a hour – or so it felt to his companion.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I read your latest novel – Dracula,” Watson said, smiling automatically. What he didn’t add was that he’d read it hiding in his own room like a criminal planning a coup, because if Holmes had seen him reading such a book he wouldn’t have heard the end of the man’s contempt. 

“And did you like it?” Stoker asked, masking his anxiousness but keen like every author on God’s green earth.

“I found it riveting,” the doctor replied honestly. “But I admit that I am really curious about a rumour that circulated. Was the count really modelled after Mr. Irving, your employer?”

“Who else? When one has daily contact with such an overwhelming personality, it is almost impossible not to let oneself be inspired by them. You should know, doctor Watson. I’ll admit that I’m well aware of your own writings too – and I admire what you’ve done,” Stoker confessed, shrugging. 

“Thank you so much. I do know the feeling all too well, yes. But you’ve made your companion into a villain. A majestic one, for sure, but still one. I can’t imagine how Holmes would have reacted if I had done the same. He’s critical enough of my little tales like it is,” Watson remarked, chuckling softly. 

“Well, you kept your friend’s true name. Casting him in such a role would have been nothing less than slander. I, instead, can safely take revenge for every time Mr. Irving has been insufferable with me. And I can always deny what I have admitted to you to my employer, so as not to hurt his feelings. You’ve not been very clever, doctor,” Stoker bit back with a smirk. 

“Ah, but our dear doctor Watson is advertising for his friend’s business, isn’t he? Using an alias would hardly be practical,” Doyle piped in to his defence.

“I am – and after all, I am honest about him. I do not mask his shortcomings, which is revenge enough, in a sense. But Holmes is really an amazing man. I do not exaggerate anything about him – the good or the bad,” Watson declared simply. 

“That I easily believe – I do know an amazing, infuriating man of my own. And honestly, I have twisted less details about him than one would think,” Stoker affirmed, a humorous glint in his eyes. 

“I am sure,” Doyle cut in. “And I am very glad that you are getting along so well, but I do see someone else I meant to introduce Watson to. If you’ll excuse us a moment…you can have him back afterwards.”

“Of course,” Stoker agreed. 

Watson repressed a sigh. Back to being flaunted.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from our goddess Hades Lord of the Dead once again - "Regard the moon." I had a quite hard time with this, but then I found out that in consequence of an eruption of the Krakatoa volcano in August 1883 the moon appeared blue for years, so…here we are.

 

Holmes had never cared about astronomy. He maintained that the belief about full moon’s influence on crime rates was utter nonsense, and that whatever did not influence his work should be allowed no space in his mind palace. 

His flatmate’s stance was very different. Not about the full moon’s noxious influence, he was rather sure that the sleuth had actual data to back up his conviction, but about the attention to be paid to the heavenly bodies. The doctor loved the myths associated to planets and constellations, and would lament that the pollution and all-too-common fog of London wouldn’t let him enjoy such a wonderful sight as often as he’d like.

Watson understood his friend’s disinterest in such matters, and even if he deemed it a pity, he would not try to get him as fascinated as him by the occasional shooting star or any other celestial phenomenon. He knew that if he wanted someone to share his admiration with, he needed to leave 221B. Though, a night of late August 1883, he really couldn’t help himself. “Regard the moon, Holmes,” he pleaded, looking agape at the sky. 

“I don’t care how bright, amazing or romantic it is, Watson. You should know,” the consulting detective replied, rather briskly, not looking up from his scientific book.

“No, really – look up a moment,” the doctor insisted, an odd urgency in his voice. It was unusual that he would be so stubborn about such a trifle, too. 

That prompted Holmes to acquiesce to his friend’s request. What he saw was a blue moon. A literal, blue-tinted moon. “Well, that’s a promising sight. Thank you for mentioning it, my dear,” he remarked, with a lopsided grin. 

“Promising?” Watson echoed, baffled by the choice of adjective. He’d have said unique, or amazing, or something of that ilk himself. 

“If we are to believe the old saying, all manners of rare and unusual events should happen now,” the sleuth pointed out, still smiling. “Hopefully even the criminal classes will feel tempted to show much more creativity in their endeavours.” 

The doctor chuckled. “I hope so, for your sake,” he quipped, smiling back. “This year has been a bit slow for you.” And that meant more drug use on his friend’s part. If only the British felons showed a bit more cleverness, Watson would have been grateful to them. This new friendship was making him gain strange new priorities. 

Very disappointingly for the 221B lodgers, it appeared that the old proverb was a myth, too. The blue moon that had so impressed by lasted for a couple of years, but in the meantime, the criminal records were absolutely unsatisfactory.   


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. I apologise for missing out yesterday, some things happened, so…to compensate, double dose today, though I’m very afraid it isn’t much good, and probably entirely OOC. Yesterday’s prompt was from W. Y. Traveller - Watson pays a visit to Mary's grave on Christmas Eve.

24 December 1893

Watson stumbled towards his late wife’s grave – and not just because the cold weather aggravated his old wounds. Once in front of it, he painfully knelt to arrange the bouquet of red roses he was holding to replace the old one, and deposited a soft kiss on the hard stone. 

“So…hello, Mary,” he said once he got up, still caressing the headstone. “Merry Christmas. I’m wondering, do you celebrate Christmas in heaven? Maybe throw Jesus a birthday party?” The doctor chuckled weakly at his own joke, but it ended on a sob.

“Oh no, no,” he chided himself aloud. “I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t cry today. It’s just…I miss you, love. I miss you so bad. Christmas should be for family, and you are – no, I have to say were, don’t I? – all the family I had, and…” His voice trailed off, choked by raw emotion. 

“Anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. Seriously. I won’t be lonely. Hopkins invited me to join him tomorrow. He’s been rather insistent, too. I’m honestly not entirely sure that I’ll go, but…better than moping all day, I suppose,” Watson added once he composed himself somehow, ending with a deep sigh. 

“You know, I’m kind of hoping we can be reunited sometime soon – certainly before the next big festivities come around – but don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid. If only because we wouldn’t be reunited then. It’s just…you’re the one enjoying the better company right now. Try to persuade Holmes to play you some carols, if I can make a suggestion. After all, I’m sure no heaven could deny him his music. And he might need a bit of prodding, but he’s – was – well, is for you really heavenly to hear when he wants to,” the doctor continued, holding back another sob. His dear ones were happy together in heaven. That should be a comforting thought, shouldn’t it? So why it made him only miss them all the keenest? 

“See you soon, Mary. Oh – not like that. I just mean, I’ll be back tomorrow. Bye, love,” the widow uttered softly. Bending to leave a last kiss over her beloved name, he turned away and slowly left. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Today double dose to make up about yesterday (sorry about that) so if you have come straight here you could want to click to the previous chapter. Or not. I’m afraid none of today’s chapters are very good. I apologise. Prompt from mrspencil - a surprise party is arranged. (And now rereading it I’m not even sure I answered it properly, but…well. I’m just very unsure today.)

__

Holmes had been maybe too enthusiastic when Lestrade’s telegram had summoned him to Scotland Yard, a few days before Christmas 1900. But the lack of anything remotely engaging for his brain in the latest weeks had taken his toll on him, and despite the festive season, the sleuth was on the brink of plunging into a black mood. 

Naturally, the doctor accompanied him, jotter in hand, hoping for something that would be worth of appearing on the Strand. Both men’s expectations were disappointed, but neither was overly dejected about it. 

They were led by a young, excited constable not to Lestrade’s office – to which they really wouldn’t have needed an escort, knowing the way all too well – but to a wide meeting room, and once there welcomed by loud cheers of, “Surprise!” and, “Merry Christmas!” 

It appeared that the Yard’s Christmas party was in full swing – there were all the requirements of merrymaking, from a huge Christmas tree in a corner to garlands draped around to abundantly flowing alcohol. The only Christmas symbol absent was mistletoe, but in an entirely male setting that’d only make things awkward. 

“You have to forgive me for the subterfuge, Mr. Holmes. I know you’ll be disappointed,” Lestrade said, chuckling lightly, at the same time a welcoming Hopkins came grinning and offering refreshments to the both of them. 

“But as I said a few months ago,” the ferret-looking inspector continued, smiling widely, “there are a lot of people here looking forward to the honour to shake your hand and eager to thank you for your help in upholding the cause of justice. We thought we could do that and spread a bit of seasonal merriment at the same time.”

Indeed, many policemen – some of whose had collaborated with Holmes in the past, while others had just heard of his legendary prowess – crowded them, with well wishes and heartfelt praise. Predictably, the consulting detective blushed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Today’s prompt is from silvermouse - Starlight Starfight. Now, I researched and it seems it is a level of a videogame. Since even involving the Doctor or others time-travellers I couldn’t see any of our cast playing it, this prompt took a quite surreal turn. I hope you’ll forgive me!

It was the first of May 1891, and the sleuth and his faithful companion were somewhere in Switzerland, a little village whose name Watson wasn’t even sure he could correctly pronounce. It had been the former soldier’s suggestion, actually, to keep watch in shifts during the night. Mostly because he was afraid the over-watchful – with good reason – Holmes would not have let himself sleep at all until the end of this case otherwise.

The consulting detective had agreed, probably realising that if he didn’t rest at all he would pass out sooner rather than later. Still, the doctor always felt honoured that his friend trusted him with his safety – with his very life – as if it was obvious to do so. 

It was while the doctor observed carefully for any odd movement out of the window (the door of their room had already been carefully blocked, and he remembered the detective’s fears) that he saw a brilliant shooting star running through the night sky. Silly as it was, Watson automatically made a silent wish. “Oh please let Holmes be safe from his hunters.” He would protect his friend himself, of course – but a bit of heavenly help couldn’t hurt.

A few hours later, in a village only too near to the one the detective rested in, it was the Colonel’s turn to stare at the sky, now near dawn. The Professor had been planning, calculating and raging until the wee hours of the night, and now – finally tired – he was sleeping soundly and would continue to do so till mid-morning if Moran had any say about it. His boss would undoubtedly complain about the time lost, and grumble that he hadn’t been woken early enough, but someone had to take care of him. 

But something – an owl, or a luckily forgotten nightmare, or maybe an unexpected step in the corridor – had suddenly woken the master hunter, and after a rapid check to see everything was fine in the hotel he quickly observed the outside to ensure nothing was wrong. 

It was then that he saw a shooting star himself, and silently prayed, “Let the Professor obtain his revenge – and be pleased with it,” before quietly scoffing at himself, “Of course he will. I’ll ensure it.” 

None of these people would have believed what happened next (and you too might chalk it up to a too vivid dream or an unaware drug use). But two burning souls were led to an often-used arena, full of stardust from previous encounters, with the warning, “Conflicting wishes. You know how it works, boys. Fight it out – and may the most worthy wish win!” What happened there is beyond description, because no human soul could see it without being dazzled. But it doesn’t matter, does it? We know the result of that particular match.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from Domina Temporis - A day in the country. Enjoy!

It was in the spring of 1905 that, after a draining case that had occupied the consulting detective for three weeks, Watson had proposed for the both of them to take a short holiday somewhere, to recuperate – they weren’t that young anymore. “Not under our true names, though,” he’d added, smiling, “it seems people can’t help bringing you  cases no matter how much rest you need. I’m still sorry about what happened when I convinced you to visit Hayter.”

“You don’t have to be. I had fun there. But fine, we’ll do things your way, my dear. I can be Liam Vernet – I have already used that alias once and I have a full backstory to go with it. And you, Watson?” the sleuth replied, smiling back.

“Oh, I don’t know. Pick one for me. I’m sure I’ll like it,” the doctor replied, shrugging. 

“How about Brian Brodie?” the detective queried, almost in jest, fully expecting a rebuttal. 

“It’s a bit alliterative…but you could do worse. Fine,” Watson had agreed. He really didn’t care about how he was called. He was just looking forward to their holiday. 

Which had brought the both of them to a nice little cottage in the Sussex country, not too far from either the beach (it was actually a nice walk till there) or a decent-sized town if they looked for something their little village couldn’t provide. The old owner and his equally aged wife made for housekeepers and occasional tourist guides, and both men had fully enjoyed their time there. Especially Holmes who’d taken a keen interest (way too keen if you asked Watson) in their landlord’s hives. 

So when, one of the last mornings, the doctor had invited his friend to a stroll along the beach and had been refused in favour of a hour or so of bee observation, he’d been a bit disappointed, but had thought best to go alone and leave him to his pastimes. 

“Did you want to see the bees again?” the old man had asked, offering to accompany his guest. 

“Maybe later. I’ll admit it was a trick – I wanted to talk to you about something without my companion’s knowledge, Mr. Netley,” Holmes said. 

“Do tell,” Mr. Netley replied, raising a puzzled eyebrow. 

“You are about to leave this house,” the sleuth stated simply.

“Who told you? It’s true that my eldest daughter has been nagging me forever to go live with her in Eastbourne – she’s worried about us, you see, my wife’s hip is not what it used to be and I’m…well, you can see for yourself. I think I would like to live with her, but I don’t want this place to fall into disrepair, and there are the bees – someone should take care of the bees!” Mr. Netley rambled quickly.

“Someone certainly should,” Holmes agreed, smiling. “And nobody told me. It was simply obvious from many details.”

The old landlord gaped at him. “You’re like that detective in the Strand, Mr. Vernet! Olmson, no, Holto…no, neither that. My memory isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid. But you’re just like him, I swear. I thought that was all flight of fancy of the writer!” 

The sleuth managed not to laugh. That would have been impolite. But really, he’d have to tell Watson that. “Thank you,” he replied instead. “And to settle your conundrum…I admit that I’m still not at liberty to entirely retire, but I’ve been looking forward to it in the past months, and I certainly aim to be able to in six months at most. Would you sell me this place then? I assure you the bees would be well cared for. And I have been lucky in my career – I’m sure we can reach an agreement about the price.”

“That would be marvellous, Mr. Vernet! Knowing someone who loves my babies – and loves this place, and just loves everything – would be here in my stead. I’ll tell my daughter that we’ll move in a few months. She’ll be so happy about it!” Mr. Netley gushed, enthusiastic. 

“Now how about another visit to the bees?” the detective queried, smiling. 

They did, and it was there that Watson found them, back from his stroll. “You should have come, my dear. It was delightful – the air so fresh, and the gentle music of the waves. It was rejuvenating, truly.”

“Don’t worry, doctor. I have no doubt that I’ll have other occasions to enjoy the invigorating effects of the sea air,” Holmes bit back, with a little secret smile. That should be a surprise for later times.   


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Today’s prompt comes from silvermouse – Parents. I’d like to mention here, since I allude to it, "On Murder Considered as one of the Fine Arts", an essay by Thomas De Quincey first published in 1827 in Blackwood's Magazine (with sequels). I know it was satirical but you never know how someone with less sense of humour might take it. :-)

__

Sherlock Holmes is his mother’s son. Which might seem a truism, but it is indeed true beyond the most literal sense. Both Holmes brothers have inherited the keen eye for details that made their ancestor Carle Vernet able to paint such lifelike pictures, it’s true. But the art in Sherlock’s blood is much stronger, searching for an outlet – any outlet. 

Whether it is his music (another talent he’s got from his mummy, though her instrument of choice was the piano), the irrepressible instinct to make a show out of his cases’ solutions, or the yearning for people’s applause he won’t quite admit to (well, one specific person’s applause to be exact – luckily for him, one who’s always free in handing his praise), it doesn’t matter.

You can see plainly how fine an artist the younger Holmes might have become if his passion for justice – and maybe, in long past days, his involvement with one Victor Trevor – hadn’t pushed him towards his actual career. 

Of the artist he has the fickle moods, the bohemian nature – and, even if he’d argue vehemently that his detection is pure science, his intuition about which if a number of apparently meaningless details holds the key to the solution of his latest case might have more of the inspiration of an artist than any murderous follower of De Quincey might claim to possess in his own work.

His older sibling, instead, takes after their father – and not only the slow metabolism, which is so unluckily coupled with an appreciation for the finest cuisine (Mycroft will undoubtedly encounter his dad’s death, having a stroke after the umpteenth reception). 

As fascinated as he’d been from their mother’s lively soul, Holmes senior had been a quiet man at heart, enjoying his house’s comforts and his beloved habits (which Sherlock had the unwise proneness to disrupt more often than not). 

He also was scientifically inclined, which both his sons have inherited, though his younger heir’s version of such a passion seemed to always end in – luckily minor – explosions. Mycroft had picked the much safer mathematics as his subject of choice, which has served him very well – easily translated into deep understanding of economics – for his own career into the world. 

You’d think Mycroft should have been his father’s favourite, with mummy appreciating more Sherlock’s initiative instead – and you’d be dead wrong. It was exactly the opposite. Obviously, as any of the Holmes brothers would explain you – their parents’ marriage had been out of love, not convenience. And since their parents fell in love with each other, naturally they loved more the son in which the characteristics of their beloved were more conspicuous. Elementary, really.         


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Today’s prompt comes from our goddess Hades Lord of the Dead - Inspector Lestrade does something heroic. I almost went the joking way, but then decided not to. Hope this is heroic enough for you – I had a hard time with it! (Still, this might be OOC – and probably all around pitiful and off topicl. You’ve been warned.) Also, this is dedicated to my lovely Muse, Ennui Enigma. Happy birthday dear!!!

The case seemed relatively easy – a man had been shot (not mugged, though). But the victim had no documents or other immediate clues to his identity, and so, to determine who might have a motive against him, Lestrade had called Holmes. The consulting detective would immediately determine the victim’s job, background, and – if he wasn’t a Londoner – his reason to be in the city, too.

The sleuth had not disappointed, and after a quick investigation, Lestrade, Holmes, and Watson (of course the doctor had dutifully followed his friend) were on the trail of their murderer. Which was, if you were wondering, a scorned woman – an actress just back from a tour in America where she’d acquired the gun calibre 22 she’d used in her murder. 

They weren’t certain of where the murderess might have repaired after her crime, and so they were trying to find her, based on what they knew (which, despite Holmes’ deductions, wasn’t much). That’s the only reason for what happened afterwards. 

Holmes had stopped momentarily, noticing a detail that could clue them further about their prey, but – unaware of that – Lestrade and Watson had continued to investigate the theatre she’d been engaged by. 

Be it luck – or the opposite of it – there was exactly where their quarry had escaped, looking for a way to disguise herself before running away safely. She noticed them and – as any nervous, trigger-happy criminal would have done – decided to shoot first and ask questions later. 

The bullet would have hit Watson, if Lestrade hadn’t shoved him out of the way instinctively – which meant that the Inspector took the bullet himself. Thankfully, it was not a serious wound. 

Immediately recovering from being rather brusquely pushed, and having – obviously, given the crime – brought his gun himself, the doctor shot back at the criminal, disarming and incapacitating her (he’d been shot at first, so he was acting on self-defence and nobody would criticise him) before turning to assess the inspector’s condition.

Holmes took Lestrade’s cuffs and moved to imprison their now unarmed murderess, glaring at her.

“Thank you – that bullet was destined for me,” Watson said warmly, while checking Lestrade. 

“Just doing my job – protecting good citizens from criminals,” the inspector replied, gritting his teeth slightly at the pain.

“Yes, but not as a human shield,” the doctor quipped. That was going a bit beyond duty.  

“Actually, Watson, if this woman had any sense she should have tried to take out the inspector first – that you were about to be hit demonstrates only her awful aim when she wasn’t shooting point-blank range,” the detective interjected, sneering. 

The murderess did not reply, just huffed. 

“Holmes!” Watson chided, glowering at him. 

“This does not mean that we’re not very grateful, Lestrade. Au contraire. You’ll see,” the sleuth corrected himself. 

Actually, that worried the detective inspector more than any threat heìd received from criminals this year…      


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from Wordwielder – Authors. Now, I reread A Study in Scarlet and the only date I could find was 4 March 1881 for the case – but no exact date of when Holmes and Watson started their cohabitation. So, for this snippet, they were flatmates since the end of 1880 – say, October or November – and spent together that Christmas. I hope this timeline is acceptable. Written from Watson’s point of view.

“I hear that A Study in Scarlet is going to be reprinted yet again soon,” Holmes told me once, smiling, when I went to visit him in his Sussex retirement. “Don’t you think it is time to add a little note to it? An erratum of sorts?”

He’d teased me more than once in our long friendship about my over-romanticised writing style, but I made a point not to lie – but for omitting or twisting slightly, of course, the details that could cause the true protagonists to be recognised or receive any other ill effect. So I queried, puzzled, “About what?”

He took from a bookcase an old, yellowed copy of my novel – which I didn’t even know he possessed – and opened it to an ear-marked page, hitting the incriminating line with a long finger. It was my assessment of his limits, and precisely the sentence ‘Literature: nil.’ “That’s quite embarrassing, Watson. Haven’t I proved to you that I’m not uncultured in the least? Haven’t I quoted enough good authors to you along the years? Goethe, Flaubert, Thoreau, Shakespeare – as any British gentleman should – and many others?” my old friend protested, blushing slightly.

“The game is afoot,” I murmured back to him, echoing his favourite Shakespearean quote, smiling as so many wonderful memories swept through me. “Well, I have been a proper Boswell, haven’t I? I recorded many of your quotes in my stories. Anyone reading them can make his own deductions about your literacy.” 

“Yes, but…” my friend objected nonetheless. I didn’t get why he would be bothered by this now. I hoped it wasn’t because, feeling old, he thought he would not be around much longer to prove to anyone he was certainly not illiterate, and didn’t want to leave such an insulting memory of himself behind.

“That novel is meant to record the start of our acquaintance. It is not at all meant to be a perfect image of you – just of me, helplessly and quite blindly trying to figure you out,” I justified myself. Any first impression is bound to be inexact. I expected that my readers would know that. I’d been baffled and entranced from the very start by my mysterious and amazing companion, and eager to define him somehow.

 “Yes, but whatever made you come to such a harebrained conclusion?” Holmes asked, clearly frustrated with my past self.

“Ah, about that…it was a silly anecdote, really. Our first Christmas together was looming closely, and I had been thinking of buying you a book. Like many other people, I am guilty of wanting to buy people’s gifts in my own favoured shops. So I tried to investigate your literary tastes, by way of small talk. You were quite curt about not having time to lose with literary fiction when reality was much more interesting. And when I insisted that you had to have at least an author you enjoyed, you replied that you couldn’t think of a single one. It hadn’t been long since you’d described to me your brain attic theory and proved to ignore the solar system, so I…well, I assumed the worst,” I explained, chuckling at my own past, stupid self. 

Holmes joined me in my laugh. “Oh, that! It was painfully evident why you’d suddenly developed an interest in my literary tastes – which would have been clear enough if you’d just examined my books while I was out, but then I suppose you were still too proper to condone snooping – and I didn’t want a book as a gift. What I wanted was to manipulate you into refilling my chemicals’ supplies for me – which I managed to, if you remember. That was the reason why I was so dismissive about literature. I didn’t imagine you’d think so ill of me,” he revealed then, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I didn’t know you yet, not very well. You have to forgive me, Holmes. You know that I can’t read people like you do,” I replied softly. 

“We probably wouldn’t be such good friends if you could,” my old companion quipped, a glint in his eyes.

“Then I’m really glad I can’t, my dear,” I countered affectionately. “But I’m afraid the reprint is already halfway through – I’m not sure I can change anything at this point.”

“Oh well,” he sighed. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. I waited this long because I wanted you to choose by yourself to correct that line. I can wait a bit more. I have to admit that I have become quite fond of your scribblings as they are over the decades, Watson.” 

I could only grin back. Now this was something I thought I’d never hear.        


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Today’s prompt is from W. Y. Traveller - Peace and goodwill. I tried to get Holmes to comply, but he was feeling no goodwill towards anyone, so I had to ask someone else to take center stage. I hope you’ll like this!

It might be a legacy of his army career, but Moran rarely took initiatives – he followed orders. While being perfectly able to plan on his own, he deferred to the Professor’s genius brain – and as a result, he was a perfect tool for his boss to carry out the most dangerous plans.

Which was why Moriarty was surprised by the Colonel coming to visit him without being summoned. Not that he was angry about it. But the Professor was naturally careful and any unexpected event could mean something was wrong. Especially because his favourite sniper seemed ill at ease, or maybe only embarrassed, as he was dragging his feet. “Do speak up, Moran. I presume you’ve not asked to meet me to be free to stare at me,” he said, perhaps a tad too sternly, when it seemed the man would not open his mouth without permission.

The former Colonel blushed slightly. “No, Sir, of course, Sir. I was just…wondering if you were certain about not needing my services around the Christmas holidays. That’s all,” he replied, talking quickly.

From anyone else, such a sentence would mean the man wanted to make sure he had free time for whatever his plans were. But just a look at his sniper told Moriarty that his case was exactly the opposite. “Shame on you, Moran,” he teased, with a tiny smile. “Murder during the festive season? We might be criminals, but we are not entirely heartless. Peace and goodwill and all that. Even our targets – why, even our enemies – deserve to enjoy one last happy Christmas before we take them out.”

Moran sighed. “Sorry, Sir. Just checking, it’s all.” He was ridiculous, of course. If the Professor wanted his services he’d let him know. But he’d yearned for a reason to miss Christmas with his family. Sir Augustus Moran, CBE, never let his son forget his own deep disappointment and scorn since ‘the boy’ (he could be almost forty, but he would always be an unruly boy to his father) had to leave behind both his military career and India with a certain haste.

And sadly, Sebastian couldn’t simply make up any excuse not to go to the family reunion. His father had always been able to see through all his lies, and the sniper had long ago been instructed not to entirely break ties with the man. The last thing they wanted was a scandal in which Sir Moran disowned his only son.

Moriarty looked him up and down with his piercing eyes, then shrugged and added casually, “Fine, Moran. Let your father know that a friend has been awfully insistent while inviting you for Christmas and won’t take no for an answer.”

The Colonel blinked twice, baffled. “A friend, Sir?” he echoed, uncomprehending.

“It sounds better than my criminal boss, doesn’t it? Use your brain sometimes, Moran. I know for a fact that you do have one,” the Professor sneered, eyes tightening in irritation. He hated how slow people could be.

Despite his sternness, Moran chuckled. “That it does, Sir. But – are you serious? Would you really wish for my company during the holidays?” He fully expected to be told, ‘Of course not, Moran, don’t be stupid. Why would I? I’m just giving you a way out.’

Instead Moriarty looked thoughtful, and replied, “I said so, didn’t I? do you know me to joke? I’m warning you, though – I’ll probably use your help to herd the crowd of my nephews into some semblance of order. I could use some muscle for that.”

“Thank you, Sir. Thank you so very much, really. This means so much to me,” the Colonel countered, eagerly.

“Yes, yes, you are welcome,” the Professor said, dismissive. “Now off you go. I’ve just received new data from the Royal Astronomical Society and I really need to check them.”

Faced with a direct order, Moran nodded, saluted and left – but he wasn’t able to cancel the wide grin from his face.   


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. First things first, thank you so much to the anonymous guest who reviewed yesterday’s snippet – I am very glad that you enjoyed it. :D Today’s prompt comes from our Goddess, Hades Lord of the Dead - Your response today must feature some variation of cute baby animal. I apologise for the silliness and complete anachronism of it, but I couldn’t help myself. Also, since this asked for cute I stopped myself – but I do have a totally angsty, heart-breaking, soul-crushing headcanon to go with this snippet. Ask me in review or pm if you want to have a good cry and be a bit horrified.

“Look, John! Isn’t he  _adorable?_ ” Mary cooed, as soon as her husband came in after work, one cold December day of 1889. She was holding in her arms a tiny, baby bunny, white but for a black, floppy ear, like it was a newborn.

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “Oh yes, he’s definitely…cute. But what is he doing here? Don’t you typically buy already dead and skinned animals for dinner?” he teased. 

“John Hamish Watson!” Mary chided, outraged. “How can you be so heartless as to suggest we _eat him_?”

“Well, what else are rabbits for?” the doctor asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Mrs. Forrester thought that I needed a pet of my own,” Mary stated, with all the dignity of an offended queen. “So she gave him to me for Christmas. She’s come to visit this morning.” 

“I’m sorry, Mary, but you can’t blame me for not knowing that. Since you like him, of course he’s welcome to be part of the family,” John replied, apologetic. “How did you name him?” 

“I haven’t decided yet. Suggestions?” she prompted, with a small smile. 

Watson was silent for a few moments, trying to come up with a proper, beautiful name for the new addition to the family. Almost unconsciously, the doctor moved to pet him, but was unpleasantly broken from his reflections when the tiny, apparently harmless thing bit him. Hard. He yelped loudly. 

Mary’s chuckle didn’t help matters. “He understood that you wanted to cook him!” she declared, still laughing. 

“A bit of help, love?” he pleaded, gritting his teeth. He didn’t want to hurt the tiny thing somehow by handling him roughly, but it hurt. 

Between the two of them, they managed to coax the as of yet anonymous bunny to release him, but it needed more time and persuasion than John would have liked. “I got a name for him,” the doctor announced once free, shaking his own smarting hand. 

“Tiger? Hellspawn?” Mary joked, still looking fondly at the vicious little beast. 

“Plot. When the idea of writing ‘A study in scarlet’ came over me, I didn’t want to follow through. I wasn’t a writer, and I was afraid that I couldn’t possibly be able to make justice to Holmes’ character, and of course I didn’t think my friend would appreciate such an initiative – you know what he thinks of literary detectives, he wouldn’t want to become one. But the plot had bitten and it wouldn’t let go until I caved in,” Watson explained, smiling. 

“Plot,” his wife echoed, as if tasting the word. “I like that. Who is mum’s little baby, uh, Plot?” she murmured.

The besotted doctor could only think how wonderful a mother she would become someday. Hopefully, soon. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Today’s prompt is from W. Y. Traveller - Mrs. Hudson sends Holmes and Watson out to buy a Christmas tree. I feel like I messed up a bit, but I hope it’s acceptable.

__

__

It was hardly surprising that Holmes would be a bit of a Scrooge, and deem the trappings of the Christmas season useless at best and distracting at worst. His flatmate, instead, would have decorated every inch of their abode if left alone. So, of course, the first Christmas they spent together saw many a spat on the matter before they reached a satisfying compromise.  

What the consulting detective didn’t expect was Mrs. Hudson to take part in the dispute. They’d been discussing about the opportunity of a Christmas tree during that particular morning, when she came in bringing lunch.

 “But of course you gentlemen need to have a tree! It’s Christmas, after all!” she interjected while she settled the tray the table. Watson beamed at her.

“I didn’t think that you’d endorse what amounts to a giant fire hazard, Mrs. Hudson,” the sleuth drawled instead. 

“It will most certainly not burn down, Mr. Holmes, unless you have a hand in it – and you better not,” the old lady chided sternly. 

“Since you formed a coalition against me, I can only relent. Fine, we can have the silly tree,” Holmes caved in, with not much grace – and maybe just the hint of a pout. 

“Thank you so much, Holmes!” the doctor said nonetheless, smiling warmly. “I’m going to get it after lunch.”

“Not alone, doctor. You’ll need help to lug around a proper tree. Mr. Holmes, you simply have to go with him,” Mrs. Hudson piped in once again, sharply. 

Watson fully expected a loud protest, but the detective agreed to that with barely an eye roll. The doctor’s next thought was that the sleuth would leave in his company, but part with him as soon as out of their landlady’s sight. 

Instead, Holmes had really dutifully followed him to pick a tree. And even given his input on the matter. Well, to be honest he’d been unnecessarily fussy over it, in Watson’s opinion. Maybe that was the sleuth’s new plan in hope to dissuade him from getting one at all. If it was so, he’s decidedly underestimated the doctor’s own stubbornness. 

Though Watson had to admit that when they did found a tree that his companion deemed adequate, it was a truly magnificent tree that they brought home. One quite a lot taller than the doctor himself, too, so Watson hoped he would get to involve his flatmate in decorating it, since he’d picked it too. But that might be too ambitious a hope.  


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Yesterday no chapter – sorry about that. To compensate, I’ll try to get two out today but I don’t promise anything. Yesterday’s prompt from Garonne - a baker's dozen. Which apparently, for historical reasons, means thirteen. I am not sure if my interpretation of it is not anachronistic. I did some research but could not find anything about it.

Holmes had just ended a long, trying case – in Norway, if Watson had understood him correctly. The doctor hadn’t been involved in this one, and was starting the consulting detective shouldn’t be allowed to take cases alone anymore.

Unsurprisingly, unsupervised, the sleuth had pushed himself too hard and came home sporting a bad case of bronchitis. The doctor just prayed that his friend had returned to London and received medical attention in time to stop it from evolving into pneumonia.  

That meant that Holmes was on enforced bed rest. At least, his flatmate dearly hoped that he managed to be resting. A sarcastic man would remark that this should be heaven for the doctor. No nerve-wracking indoor shooting practice, no smelly experiments, no atonal violin playing deep into the night.

Instead, Watson could only worry and feel keenly the empty solitude of the sitting room, which seemed at least five degrees colder than it was supposed to be, with the fire roaring in the hearth. Even when they spent time together in silence, each absorbed in his own occupations – why, even when Holmes was unresponsive, under the influence of his blasted drugs – the mere presence of his companion in the room was a comfort that Watson hadn’t realised he’d come to rely on so much.

Now he sat at his desk, ears unconsciously straining to hear any cough or sign of distress from the adjoining room. The doctor didn’t dare to read – a good book risked to absorb his attention completely, distracting him from the weakest call from Holmes’ bedroom, while a badly written or boring book would be a punishment he didn’t feel he deserved.

But Watson had to occupy himself somehow – so, his hands automatically went to the cards and started playing solitaire game after solitaire game. The mindless activity required him no focus, and it still kept him from sitting staring at the wall in worry. It was only after the fifth one that he even noticed which solitaire he’d chosen. Baker’s dozen, with his thirteen columns of cards. He chuckled to himself. Given their address, it was only proper.      


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Double chapter today to compensate for yesterday – so you might want to check the previous chapter too if you want. Or not. Whatever. Prompt from cjnwriter - Mythical creatures. I know this called for winglock, or faunlock, or merlock…but it somehow turned into this.

“Welcome, my Bai Hu,” said Moriarty fondly, when the Colonel heeded his summon.

“Uh?” was the most intelligent reply the sniper could muster.

The Professor chuckled. “Oh right, you’ve been to India and Afghanistan, but hoping you’d picked a bit of Chinese in your travels too would be too much to ask,” he remarked, but not as sharply as he could have.

“I do hope you’re not going to give me orders in Chinese from now on, Sir,” Moran replied, looking uncomfortable. “I realise that we’re starting to widen our business and have a sort of partnership with the Chinese too, but I’m afraid that I’m not tuneful enough for that language. I do not know much, but I do know that the wrong accent can completely mess up the meaning of a word.”

“Do not worry, my dear. I’m not about to force the whole language on you. that was just a tease, I have been studying their culture too – if you are in business with someone, you do not want to slip and stumble on some sort of taboo or offend them. At least, not without _meaning_ to,” the Professor explained reasonably.

“Oh. Of course, Sir,” the Colonel agreed respectfully.

“And that’s where I met Bai Hu. A constellation, as well as a mythical creature. The White Tiger of the West, associated to the autumn, and the element of metal,” Moriarty recounted, looking intently at his companion.

Apparently having stopped paying attention after the first half of the sentence, the hunter – eyes shining with enthusiasm – remarked, “I do have a few white tiger furs in my collection. Even a stripeless white one. If you like them, I could bring them over. They would make a nice rug, in front of the heart. Or if you prefer, I have a black tiger skin too. Also, if you need someone in the south of China, I’d like to go myself – with an interpreter, of course. I heard they have blue ones, and I still need one of those in my trove.”

“Oh please Moran, do keep your mind on something else than your trophies, for once!” the Professor snapped, irritated.

“Sorry Sir,” the sniper apologised, looking properly chastised and blushing slightly.

“ _As I was saying_ , supposedly the divine White Tiger of the West – Bai Hu – was reincarnated in a famous general, Luo Cheng, and later on still, in a few more heroes,” Moriarty huffed. “Honestly, I’ve never had such a hard time praising someone!”

“I apologise, Sir. I didn’t think that you’d want to,” the Colonel confessed frankly.

“Now, now. Don’t fish for more compliments. It’s unbecoming of you!” the Professor chided, shaking his head. “And _don’t_ apologise again!” he added sternly before Moran could open his mouth to reply. “Now, for your orders…”       


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Sorry for being so late. Today’s prompt is from Riandra - The second snow. Now, I realise that this is the title of a deeply Sherlockian song. There’s just a tiny problem. I can’t, for the life of me, keep such a songfic T-rated. Afterwards, I researched Eskimo words for snow. I thought they certainly would have a term for ‘second snow’ or ‘snow falling on top of snow’. Want to know a thing? The one hundred words for snow in the Eskimo tongue is a myth. With all ideas failing, I went with my default setting. You know, angst. I would apologise, but well…this is me.

It was little after that Watson had discovered the existence of the eldest Holmes brother, that he woke up one Sunday morning to the welcome sight of the first snow of the year. He was feeling youngest than his years and playful, that day, and so as soon as he met his flatmate in the sitting room he pointed it out to the sleuth.

From the look he received, the consulting detective failed to see the significance of such an announcement. But Holmes was without a case and had fallen in one of his lethargic moods, and the doctor was determined to shake him out of it.

“Come on! I know we’re adults now, but isn’t the first snow of the year a good excuse to feel a bit like children again? Come out! We can have a snowball fight. If you need an excuse, you can call it training to dodge bullets,” Watson prompted, trying to drag up his friend by an arm from where he’d flopped down on the settee.

Letting himself be brought to a sitting position, but removing his flatmate’s hand before he could be made to rise, the sleuth replied in a clipped tone, “You presume that I would have played in the first snow as a child.”

“You…didn’t?” the doctor queried, sounding honestly baffled. Didn’t everyone?

“As my brother pointed out, it would be most unwise. Exactly because everyone else was out there playing. In my childhood, I was a prime object for bullying, for too many reasons to name them all. As for my brother, he hated mingling with dunces – as pretty much everyone else appeared to him – and while he did everything he was expected to do, and was much better than me at socialising, he could always claim his studies kept him busy to stay inside. We’d usually wait for the second snow – or sometimes the third, or however long it took our neighbours to lose interest and not crowd outside like a demented pack of beasts – to go out and play ourselves. That didn’t mean that we didn’t have our fun. Just observing the other, obnoxious children playing outside made for many a delightful contest of deductions,” the detective explained, with a tiny smile at the end of his tale.

Watson wasn’t sure if he was so very sad about it, or awed, or maybe a bit of both. It was clear that his friend saw nothing wrong with his childhood, being even fond of such memories. In the end, the doctor replied jokingly, “Well, I _can’t_ have a deduction contest with you. Won’t you indulge me this one time and come outside to play, please? You can deduce people between snowball fight’s rounds, too, and tell me all about it. I promise that I won’t let anyone pick on you.” He couldn’t help but wonder how different his friend would have become if his brother had uttered the very same sentence and led him to play.

“This one time. Let me get dressed and I’ll come with you,” the sleuth agreed with a not entirely sincere put upon sigh.              


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from my dear Holmes…errr, KnightFury - Christmas wrapping. Now, I know that they did not have fancy gift-wrapping paper in 1800s, but I read somewhere that sometime people designed and coloured their own paper. Of course, the source being a random webpage the notion might be entirely unfounded, but I liked the idea. Also, I discovered I always called mistletoe the holly – and it seems I am not the only one. I have no idea how far back this confusion goes, but I made use of it anyway.

 

“Won’t you join me, Holmes? I have some to spare,” Watson invited, pointing at the brown, rough wrapping paper laid on his desk, mixed with a few coloured ribbons.

“I don’t have anything to wrap,” the detective drawled. Which of course meant anything he could publicly wrap – wrapping up the doctor’s own gift in his presence was a social faux pas not even he would commit.

“Nothing at all? Not even Mycroft’s present? Or, I don’t know – Stamford’s?” his friend quipped, grinning.

“Stamford’s?” the sleuth echoed, as if the word made no sense. “As for my brother, it is perfectly useless to wrap his gift. He’ll deduce it anyway.”

“Then shouldn’t I wrap yours either? Don’t you want a nice golden ribbon on it?” Watson teased, eyes crinkling with mirth.

Holmes shrugged, affecting disinterest. It was enough getting a gift from Watson at all – proof he had somehow acquired a friend. The details didn’t matter (though a ribbon would be nice…).

“Oh, don’t worry. I will wrap it. Not because it’ll stop you from knowing, but because I enjoy doing it,” his flatmate reassured, good-naturedly.

“You do?” the consulting detective queried, sounding baffled. How could anyone enjoy such a pointless chore? Gift-wrapping paper existed only to be teared into, and all the care put into it would be wasted.

“Of course. I mean, I might not be perfect at it, but just imagining the happy face of the recipient when he sees my package…it brings a smile to my face. And it makes me determined to do my best,” the doctor explained, all the while cutting paper into the right dimensions.

“I suppose it makes sense,” the detective conceded. Having that many people you cared for, as evidenced by the plethora of small objects waiting on the table to be wrapped…It sounded odd and foreign to him, but not necessarily bad. Watson might be the wiser of the two of them, though Holmes doubted that he could learn to change his ways at his age. “Maybe I should have at least got something for Mrs. Hudson,” he mused.

“You didn’t? My dear, you absolutely have to! Doesn’t she deserve a thank you for everything she’s forgiven you this year?” his friend replied, sounding positively aghast..

As if summoned by their discussion, Mrs. Hudson herself came in the room. “Forgive me, but I noticed you bringing home that ugly brown paper, doctor. I’ve always liked to draw, you see, so I prepared some gift-wrapping paper a bit more festive – golden, with a few random mistletoes – and it seems I made entirely too much of it for my own needs. But that’s what happens when one enjoys herself – one forgets when to stop,” she rambled quickly, offering many sheets of brightly decorated paper.

The detective opened his mouth to interject, but closed it abruptly after a stern look from his flatmate.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson! That’s too kind of you,” the doctor said warmly, subtly steering the woman out of the flat afterwards.

As soon as she was out, Holmes grumbled loudly, “That’s not mistletoe, it’s holly!”

“Really?” his friend asked, looking critically at the drawings.

“Just _look,_ will you? That has red berries and prickly leaves. Actual mistletoe has white berries and smooth, oval leaves,” the sleuth lectured, annoyed.

“I thought you didn’t care for the trappings of the season,” the doctor teased amiably.

“Mistletoe is poisonous. Of course I’d know about it,” the consulting detective declared in a huff.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from my dear silvermouse - Animals talking. Which of course can mean only one thing… Also, in case I don’t get to update tomorrow (visiting relatives): MERRY CHRISTMAS, everyone!

When Sherlock, at six years old, had discovered the belief that on Christmas Eve, at midnight, the animals became able to talk, he was very, very excited. He had a pup, you see, which he loved with all his heart, and the chance to have actual conversations with him sounded fantastic.

Sadly, that year – despite all his endeavours – he fell asleep just short of midnight. The following year, though, he’d stolen and hidden a whole pot of coffee. The taste was too bitter and it seriously made little Sherlock question his parents’ palate health, but it did his work. When the clock ticked midnight, the young boy was more awake than ever. But he was in for a disappointment, because his puppy still only woofed and wagged his tail enthusiastically at him, no matter how Sherlock tried to cajole him into a conversation. That’s when he learned not to trust anything not backed up by solid evidence.

And then, the Christmas Eve of 1889 – awful day, in which he couldn’t help but miss his Watson more keenly than usual, but wouldn’t let himself intrude on the Christmas celebration of the young couple – the sleuth had perhaps the oddest experience of his life.

He’d been dozing on the settee, reluctant to get to bed but not really having anything to occupy himself with, when he heard the – so soft, but unmistakable – shrill voice of a violin. He didn’t know that any of his neighbours played his same instrument.

And then a quick, equally soft, “Basil! Shush! You’ll wake him up!” sounded somewhere close.

“Of course I won’t, Dawson,” another hushed, but self-assured voice retorted.

Well, that required Holmes to open his eyes and see who’d come to visit him. You can imagine his surprise at finding on the rug in front of the fireplace two mice, both dressed as proper British gentlemen, and one holding the tiniest violin he’d ever seen.

“It seems I did wake you. Apologies, Mr. Holmes,” the more slender mouse – the violin player, who apparently was named Basil – remarked, putting down his instrument.

“What an odd dream,” the human sleuth groaned.

“Oh, it’s not a dream, I assure you,” the stouter mouse, which had to be Dawson, replied.

“Oh come on! It surely is! I know it’s Christmas Eve, but I proved that was a myth. And the superstition doesn’t even mention animals dressing up!” Holmes protested loudly.

“What’s wrong with how we dress?” Basil queried, sounding affronted.

“Nothing but the fact that you are mice. You should be scurrying along in your fur and nothing else!”  the human consulting detective declared. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Naked?” Dawson choked, clearly appalled. “That’d be…that’d be beyond improper! Just mad, I tell you!”

“Mad,” Holmes scoffed. “Because talking mice make sense. You know what? I’ll retire to my bed. Sleeping on the settee is clearly damaging to my brain.”

“We’re not a dream!” Dawson yelled after him.

“Oh, let him go. The man’s brain has obviously some serious limits,” Basil snapped harshly.

Holmes ignored the both of them. Hopefully, this was just a weird nightmare and not an illness-induced hallucination.         


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!! Prompt from cjnwriter - Crashing a Christmas party.

“I expected headaches and shame from you, brother mine, but I thought that your flatmate was a proper gentleman,” Mycroft grumbled, arriving at 221B like a not entirely unexpected storm.

“He is, Mycroft. I warn you, I will not stand you insulting my friend,” the consulting detective replied, eyes ablaze. Thankfully, the discussed doctor hadn’t still come back from his rounds.

“He. Crashed. The. German. Ambassador’s. Christmas. Party,” the elder brother declared, stating each word with excessive care.

“And drank way too much, made a scene most of the guests there won’t forget in a good ten years – I don’t think they’ve even had that much fun at an Embassy party, by the way –, boisterously courted half the ladies there, and had to be bodily removed from the premises, managing to injure a couple of the Ambassador’s security guards there,” Sherlock ended quickly for him. If they had to pause between each word they’d still be doing that in the New Year.

“And you call that being a gentleman?” Mycroft hissed, raising a puzzled eyebrow.

“I call that being a patriotic man and a loyal friend,” the younger one affirmed vehemently. “I crashed that party too, Mycroft. And it is exactly because the doctor was attracting so much attention – even the guards’ attention – that I managed to slip in and take back these documents you wanted. It’s a pity we couldn’t manage to stop the exchange in the first place, but the Germans have not held onto them for more than a hour. I doubt they had time to examine them properly. The Empire should be safe…thanks to Watson.” He fished out an unassuming grey folder from the mess that was the table of the sitting room and handed it to his brother.

“Oh Sherlock, Sherlock…and you couldn’t devise a plan that would entail less of a nuisance?” the civil servant groaned.

“You can take the documents back by yourself the next time, brother. I don’t doubt you’ll be much more smooth. Probably bore everyone to sleep and then get whatever you want,” the detective snapped, irritated. No one had the right to tell him how to do his work. His annoying, lazy brother less than anyone else.

Mycroft ignored the taunt. “Anyway, I doubt that the good doctor will ever be very welcomed in Germany.”

“Good thing that he does not plan journeying there anytime soon, then,” the sleuth replied, shrugging.

“You two are impossible,” Mycroft huffed. “I’ll better bring this back to Whitehall promptly. The Earl of Kimberley will be most relieved.”                 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. First things first – thank you to James Birdsong for liking my snippets. Yesterday I didn’t check my reviews and so I didn’t thank him then. Today’s prompt comes from Aleine Skyfire – “You have Holmeses from multiple universes/adaptations in one room. This probably won't end well.” I used Granada (where they never marry Watson off, remember?), BBC!Sherlock and Elementary. Obvious spoilers for all three. To stop the worst from happening, I had the Watsons around too. I hope that’s allowed. (Psss. Probably everyone is OOC but I’m not too well).

Christmas is a time for magic. Like a very welcome triple homicide to whose crime scene – to Lestrade’s incoming headache – arrive three consulting detectives with their Watsons. You can imagine the glares flying around.

“Where did you find them? A masked ball? Or just a loony bin?” the high-functioning sociopath grumbles, pointing at the ones dressed in Victorian garbs.

“What?” the Victorian sleuth replies, clearly outraged.

“Sorry, he’s never had much tact. But you have to admit, you are dressed a tad oddly. Why that style?” the clean-shaven John Watson tries to placate.

“We’re the only one dressed normally if someone here is,” the moustached Watson points out, whiskers vibrating with defensiveness.

“Why don’t we try to at least understand who everyone is and why we’re all here?” the Chinese woman interjects reasonably.

“Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective,” three voices echo at the same time.

“What?” they all protest afterwards.

“Mmm…sorry…but which year is it?” the moustached Watson queries, after noticing an odd detail too much. Of course, what he’s thinking about Holmes would probably deem impossible, but he has read and loved Wells.

“2015, why?” the Sherlock beside the Chinese woman queries, looking interested.

“Because it was Christmas Eve of 1898 yesterday,” the Victorian doctor admits, clearly beyond baffled. They didn’t use any time machine – not that they were aware at least.

“Which makes me the original, so you pale imitations can just leave my crime scene. Anyway, you’re American, what are you doing here?” Holmes declares, raising a scornful eyebrow.

“This is my time and my London, so hands off,” the Belstaff-wearing Sherlock growls.

“Come on, boys, play nice,” the modern Londoner doctor prompts, earning a general glare from the sleuths. “Anyway, shouldn’t we find a way to call each other without getting confused?”

“We have always been Holmes and Watson, and we’re certainly not allowing you to take any further liberty with us or any familiarity,” the Victorian detective says, still glaring.

“Fine. You can call me John,” the clean-shaven doctor agrees.

“And I’m Sherlock,” his flatmate adds quickly.

“No, _I’m_ Sherlock,” the American one protests loudly.

“Joan – Joan Watson. Sober companion turned detective,” the Chinese woman introduces herself, rolling her eyes.

“Well then you can call mine Sherl. You like that, don’t you?” John declares, grinning and oddly possessive.

His companion blushes. “Who said I like that? I couldn’t exactly object to any pet names if I had to convincingly fake being Janine’s lover could I? I hated that” he yells back.

“Too bad Sherl – a Holmes lets his Watson have her way – or his, in your case – in the little things. And often even in the important ones, at least if one means to live in peace. Right, Holmes?” Sherlock teases his modern homonym.

“Of course,” Holmes agrees.

Sherl huffs, annoyed. This is all John’s fault!

“So…before we decide whose crime scene this is, any wise advice you have? God wouldn’t allow such a strange thing to happen if not for a serious reason,” Watson queries.

“I suppose – don’t fall in love with consulting criminals. Not even if they’re gorgeous, and great artists, and so so bright,” Sherlock offers, shrugging.

“You did _what_?” Sherl yells, shocked, while Holmes looks mildly ill at the thought.

“While we’re talking about that – don’t marry international assassins who worked as snipers for consulting criminals, either, no matter how sweet and funny and harmless they seem,” John points out, laughing bitterly at himself, and taking the pressure off the American sleuth to answer. He knows how it is to be utterly duped by the one you fall in love with.  

“You married? But don’t you live with your own Holmes?” Watson inquires, puzzled. What more could anyone wish for?

“Well I didn’t at the time. The bloody git let me believe he was dead,” John justifies himself, with one of his angry smiles.

“I apologised, John!” Sherl protests.

“He did, too?” Watson blurted out, dumbfounded.

“Must be a Holmes thing – Sherlock didn’t, but Mycroft did,” Joan groans.

“It was necessary,” the sleuth chorus.

“Maybe this meeting wasn’t arranged for the sake of our consulting detectives. Maybe it is for us. To let us know that we’re not alone in our struggles, and that they are scheming, insensitive gits no matter what,” John deduces, chuckling.

“Maybe,” Joan agrees, laughing.

“Fancy a drink later tonight?” the blogger asks, with a winning smile.

“Absolutely not, John. You’re not dating your race-swapped rule 63. I object. It’s…unnatural,” Sherl growls, but at the same time he looks on the brink of a good sulk.

“Honestly, I’m kinda hoping later we can figure out how to get back home and how we got here in the first place – I am sure we did not take a plane to Britain,” Joan says, accompanying the let down with a kind smile. “But you know, you might have a point,” she adds. “Or maybe it is for the consulting detectives -  a way for them to prove that they’re not entirely self-centred, arrogant, work-obsessed people. Come on, gentlemen. You can share the one crime scene like good boys.”

“Useless,” the three detectives echo in perfect accord.

“Then why don’t we make this a contest? Let us all see the crime scene. The better consulting detective will solve it the quickest,” Watson proposes enthusiastically.

“You and your bets, Watson,” Holmes grumbles. He comes from a month without work. He doesn’t want to share this when he finally finds a case!

“Afraid to lose, old man?” Sherlock teases.

“Bring it on,” Holmes replies, eyes ablaze. This might not be his time, but it does not mean that his deductive powers are in any way impeded.

“And what are you going to do, Sherl?” John asks, drawling out the annoying pet name.

“Give you something to blog about. Obviously,” his friend quips.  


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Today’s prompt comes from our goddess, Hades Lord of the Dead - Following Holmes's retirement, Watson discovers he is allergic to bee stings (doesn't have to be severely allergic, so no death fics please!). I promise it is no death fic, but I based my rendition on the tale of a classmate years ago who was allergic and got stung. I am not sure how severe she had it. And it probably is anachronistic, but well. I did not research allergy therapy in 1800s. Forgive me.

Holmes had been waiting anxiously for Watson’s first visit to his Sussex haven. Especially because the former detective was cherishing a hope he didn’t dare to voice aloud. Of course, his family had his family to live with – the good doctor was once again a widower, but the children he had from his second wife were now adults and could take care of him in his old age.

Still, children should be allowed to make their own way into the world on their own, and not be forever burdened by a parent’s presence. This might not be very tactfully expressed, and surely not a faithful representation of what anyone could feel towards his old friend – the best man he’d ever known. Why, most probably it didn’t even mirror what any ordinary man would feel towards one’s parents, even where they not outstanding like Watson. It was, though, the excuse the former sleuth had prepared and would put forth in order to persuade his old friend to share a home once again.

Finally, Watson had come, one bright summer day, and Holmes had welcomed him enthusiastically. He didn’t mention his wish right away, though. First, he was going to make the doctor thoroughly fall in love with the place, like he himself did. And of course, that meant expounding proudly about the complexity of bee society before leading his old friend to visit the hives.

Watson had smiled at his friend’s revelations about bees dancing out coded messages to communicate flowerbeds’ positions and other various Apiformes trivia, and followed him cheerfully. The day couldn’t be better, but when they’d gone strolling among the hives, the doctor had to have got too close to one, or to have done something else that upset the bees, because one of them stung him.

It should have meant nothing more than a momentary pain – Holmes knew how it felt all too well – but Watson went suddenly very pale, swelled up much more than the tiny pinprick could possibly justify, and started wheezing in a way that was painful to hear. That didn’t look good – also, his pulse seemed much too rapid.

Holmes didn’t have only bees, but a horse, too, and in a moment they were both on it, as the former detective was afraid his ill friend might have slipped off the saddle without him to steady him from behind. In ten minutes they were at the nearest village, at the local doctor’s door, because Watson could clearly not heal himself.

The white bearded man (the Sussex doctor looked considerably like Santa Claus) looked the patient over, extracted the stinger from where the dying bee left it, and injected his patient with something, pronouncing, “Allergic reaction, quite severe. You did well bringing him over at once.”

Luckily, it didn’t take his friend long to recuperate. Holmes, though, couldn’t help but silently scold himself. How had he not realised that his friend was allergic? Well, Watson himself didn’t know – or he would have refused to visit the hives. But that still didn’t justify the world’s only consulting detective (nevermind retired)’s blindness. “I’ll get rid of the hives,” Holmes declared vehemently. He loved his bees, but he loved Watson more, and didn’t want to pose a danger to him.

“Don’t you dare,” his old friend quipped, finally having got his breath back. “They owe me a lot of honey as compensation.”

 The former sleuth nodded. There went his plans…


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Today’s prompt comes from Garonne - top hat. I hope you like it!

It was not unusual for people of high standing to consult with Sherlock Holmes, so the occasional presence of a Lord in 221B Baker Street did not fluster any of the house dwellers at all. Hence why when the umpteenth nobleman looking for help had come to them with doubts about his daughter and heir’s young suitor, they heard him out looking almost bored. The man had no evidence at all for his distrust, just a weird feeling, and expected them to confirm his suspects – or not (his daughter would certainly have preferred not).

“I need to see him interact with your daughter as he usually does,” Holmes said. He normally wouldn’t accept such a case, but it had been a slow month, and even this little thing would stop him from taking another dose of his drugs, which in turn would make Watson happier.

“In two days, there’ll be a Christmas party at our mansion. He’ll undoubtedly come. You’re a celebrity, Mr. Holmes, if I invite you nobody will find it odd,” their client replied, eager to comply.

The sleuth gave him a look that loudly said, “You’re not very intelligent, are you?” “No, no. I must be there anonymously. Otherwise our quarry might suspect something,” he admonished sternly.

“Then what?” the nobleman queried, looking quite lost.

“Will you have some performers to entertain your guests?” the detective asked, even though he was almost sure he’d receive a yes. Their suspect being a habitué of the house, there was the (not very high, certainly) chance that he’d taken notice of the servants. He would certainly start wondering why the only new face hung around him all the time.

“My daughter has insisted to have a few people performing parlour tricks. She loves magic,” their client revealed, shrugging.

“Perfect. I’ll be one of them. Do not worry – I’ll perform to satisfaction,” the consulting detective decided immediately.

After discussing a few details, and mostly giving repeated assurances that yes, Holmes was serious about doing that, and yes, he would not embarrass both himself and his host, His Lordship went on his way.

“Are you going to do a bit of mindreading, Holmes?” Watson queried, grinning. He could easily imagine his friend accomplishing such a feat.

“No, better not cue anyone to my abilities. I’d have to practice a bit – I’m afraid I’m quite rusty in that particular persona. Fancy seeing me extract a dove from a top hat?” the consulting detective replied, smiling back.

“Certainly,” his friend agreed, quite enthusiastic.   


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Today’s prompt comes from Aleine Skyfire - Watson is a father. I almost went with the metaphorical, making Watson the father of a consulting toddler – well, a consulting detective with the moods of one – but then I realised that it was BBC canon, not ACD canon. So I took inspiration from a question I found on Quora and…well, I hope you enjoy.

Watson’s firstborn, Scott, was eight when Nancy – Mrs. Watson the second – welcomed her husband back from work with a frown on her face.

“What’s wrong, love?” he queried, hugging her.

“It’s Scott,” she replied, still looking very much unhappy.

“Is he ill?” the doctor asked immediately. Scott was usually a very well behaved child, and he couldn’t imagine what the boy might have done to warrant his mother’s worry and displeasure.

“No, he’s perfectly well, but…he wants to become just like you,” Nancy revealed, with a deep sigh.

“A doctor? That’s not so bad, I promise you,” Watson quipped, with a smile that would hopefully assuage his wife’s discontent, whose reason he could understand even less now.

“Not a doctor. A _writer_. He made me read his first attempt, and I can assure you he hasn’t inherited your talent. How can I let him down gently and get him to stop, John?” his wife explained, her frown deepening if possible.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he replied sternly. “Nancy, the boy is _eight_. He has all the time in the world to get better, and writing can’t exactly be called a harmful vice to be discouraged. Besides, you know, he might _have_ inherited my talent. The first draft I made for A Study in Scarlet – I shudder to think about it! I burned it as soon as I reread it, and it was still too kind a fate for that rubbish. Scott only has to read a few good books and I’m sure he’ll realise by himself that he can get better – and he will want to. Let me handle his new hobby, will you, love?”

“Fine. I just hope you’re right,” she agreed, smiling relieved.

The doctor went up to his son’s room and politely knocked. “Scott? May I come in?”

The boy replied cheerfully, “Sure, dad.”

His father entered, smiling. “Mum told me that you’re going to become an author someday.”

“Like you, dad!” Scott declared, beaming.

“Can I read your tale, too?” the oldest Watson asked, walking towards the desk where his son was – apparently – finishing his homework.

“I don’t know. I mean, you’re a writer. I’m still…well, it is all a bit silly. You’ll laugh,” his son countered, getting up from his chair and physically stopping him from getting closer, but fidgeting at the same time.

“I won’t, I promise. You haven’t read my first one. It was much worse than just a bit silly,” the doctor admitted, winking at his boy.

“Can I read it? Can I? Please?” Scott pleaded eagerly.

“Sorry, I burned it. I was living with Mr. Holmes and well…he dislikes enough what the Strand actually publishes. If he’d seen that – I can’t imagine the row that would have followed,” John bit back, chuckling.

“You’re not lying, are you?” the boy enquired, suspicious.

“I swear, I’m not. Can I read yours? I’m really curious,” the doctor tried again.

“I suppose,” Scott caved in, shrugging, “but what do I get in exchange?”

“The use of my study when I’m not there to write your stories in. I picked it because it has the best lighting of the whole house, you know,” his father offered.

“Cool! Thank you dad!” the boy replied, with a quick, spontaneous hug, before going to retrieve his manuscript for his father’s perusal.

Watson laughed when, coming back home a few days later, he saw a brand new board on his study’s door. “Genius at work,” it read, “Keep out!”  


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. Prompt from Madam'zelleGiry – Breathe. I almost went into tragedy, but I try not to this month, so I picked an alternative.

 Coming back home after an urgent house call, Watson choked upon opening the sitting room’s door. He could barely see Holmes in his customary armchair because of the thick smoke invading the whole room. The doctor hurried to the window, opening it and taking a deep breath. “Holmes!” he protested loudly, waving his arms to help the smoke dissipate. “What the hell were you thinking? Do you want to suffocate? Get nicotine poisoning?” he yelled sternly.

“As always, doctor, you are wildly exaggerating,” the sleuth replied, continuing to smoke his pipe, unfazed.

“No, I’m not, I assure you. how many pipes, Holmes?” his flatmate inquired more calmly, sighing…but making sure to do so close to the window, where the air was less toxic – there was still way too much smoke around for his liking (and he did smoke himself, but everything should have a limit!).

“Seven – and the bloody locked room still refuses to unlock!” the consulting detective grumbled, clearly frustrated.

“Well, this would make a good locked room too – nobody would be able to see a criminal moving about here in this atmosphere!” Watson quipped, shaking his head.

“My dear, you might just have solved this case!” Holmes exclaimed enthusiastically, jumping from his seat.

“I’m pretty sure no one smoked as much as you there,” the doctor remarked, baffled.

“No, it’s not that – but there’s no time for the explanations now if we want to catch our murderer. Come, Watson!” the detective replied, ardent in his prompting.

Well, what could the doctor do but follow? He wanted to know the solution of the mystery. He’d point out at the first occasion, though, that the consulting detective solved this as soon as he was able to breathe more or less properly.    


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. First of all, HAPPY NEW YEAR, everyone!!!! And thank you so much to Hades Lord of the Dead for having taken care of organising this challenge once again. Last prompt from my dear Holmes, alias KnightFury - A new beginning. Hope you enjoy!

Leaving Baker Street should have felt like a catastrophe – the end of an era. And it was, in a sense. But their latest case hadn’t ended in tragedy only because of Hopkins’ prompt intervention, running to the rescue of his mentor.

Decades ago – in Montague Street still, friendless and honestly a bit lost – the prospect of dying on a case would have sounded agreeable, even appealing. But now, when – in all probability – it would have meant dragging Watson to his demise, too, the world’s only consulting detective found the idea worse than distasteful – simply inacceptable.

Which had brought the two inseparable friends to their new address in Sussex, after careful discussions about the best options. They moved in the spring, a new housekeeper waiting their arrival (they would have loved to bring along Mrs. Hudson, if the woman hadn’t died of sheer old age a few years earlier) and flowers blooming on the road, looking as if they too wanted to welcome them.

Watson observed them keenly, since he had decided to take up gardening as a pastime. It might look a somehow feminine hobby, especially since he wanted to concentrate on growing flowers. But Holmes wouldn’t stop talking about the bees he’d ordered, and let it never be said that the doctor wasn’t helpful as he could, or a perfect complement to his old friend’s endeavours.

“Well, here we are,” the former sleuth remarked, with a somehow critical look to the wide, bright room, with its two plushy armchairs near the hearth. “It’s not Baker Street, but…”

“It doesn’t mean that we won’t be happy here,” Watson finished for him, smiling warmly. “We don’t need Baker Street. You have your scientific studies, and I have more case notes than I can ever hope to turn into stories, and above all, we have each other’s companionship. Yes, I think we shall be very happy in this home indeed.”

A younger Holmes would have chided him for being maudlin. This one only nodded, with a soft smile of his own.   


End file.
